


A Marriage of Opposites

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Crush, Impala, M/M, Pre-Slash, pimpmobile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean drinks to drown the fairy dust, and he doesn't know how to tell Castiel that whatever it is that he hasn't voiced doesn't make sense and should not be spoken of. Castiel disagrees, although Dean surely has said nothing that would give him reason to. Or has he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Marriage of Opposites

**Author's Note:**

> Very liberal interpretation of smart-ass prompts by my pain-in-the-ass friend [a-garrison-of-celestial-assbutts](a-garrison-of-celestial-assbutts.tumblr.com). (Joking, I love you.)  
> The prompts went as follows: "DEAR SWEET LORD IMPALA/PIMP CAR???? (cas' car)" + "“would u punch me if I asked for first blade (shipped with) angel blade drabble?”
> 
> For the record, yes, I would punch you, was I any closer. But instead, have this. I'm very glad you prompted me, because this fic turned out one of my favourites.

* * *

 

Dean lifted his beer up to his lips, vision misty in the midday’s sunlight. Well, it was 5pm  _somewhere_ , and he hadn’t felt this alive since… forever. The only resolution to such an error was to dull the moment with alcohol, yet the odd tingling feeling inside him whenever he so much as glanced to his right was ever present and didn’t show the usual signs of fading even as he felt his gut complain about the load it was receiving in litres.

Castiel had received some special rights recently, as could be noted from the way he remained seated upon the hood beside the hunter like he belonged there. Dean liked to tell himself it was because he was a car owner too, that the chances he’d ruin the Impala had reduced significantly ever since he’d had to take the hard course in treating old cars with his own… what was that thing, even? He cast a look at the tan gold colour finish of the pimpmobile in front of him and chuckled absently to the neck of his bottle. He hadn’t yet decided, but the sight of it had grown to herald the return of the angel, and that he was never opposed to.  
Yet again fairy dust fell off some cliff or another inside his chest and scattered its glittery, sparkling particles into the pit of his stomach. It constricted his lungs and sent a shiver down his spine and yet again he decisively attempted to drown the detail in the drink.

Behind them, separated from them by the windshield of the old Chevrolet and the sturdy front seats, slept Sam - he was the driver, given that Dean was drunker than an old sailor and would have inevitably trashed perhaps not only the car itself but multiple other cars while he’d been at it should he have attempted: no one had complained, not this time, but by now Dean could make apart the discontentness growing in Castiel and feared that any moment now a finger would press to the side of his head and take away the multiple layers of oozy defenses he’d built to reduce the effect of that damn touch. He cleared his throat and laid the half-emptied bottle to his side, its bottom clashing with the metal of the hood with a dull metallic clang, and aimed his eyes towards Castiel’s car again.

"You know," he started slowly, trying to figure out what he was going to say before he’d stumble on his words any worse, "it’s not a  _bad_  car.”

"It serves its purpose," Castiel said cautiously.  
The blue of his eyes shone like the summer sky above them, and Dean wondered why he’d ever turned, since he’d so decisively attempted to just look at the car instead.

"No, I mean, it really does."  
His hand was sweaty against the glass of the bottle in his hand and he shivered although the day was warm and there was little wind to speak of.  
"Maybe it’s a little creaky, maybe it’s - seen better days, but it runs, man. If it was just a bit classier…"

His voice faded into a void that spread upon his mind, his stare now turned back to the car but the electric blue still stuck in his vision and his chest pummeled by the heart of a deer in headlights. It was harder, bigger and faster than the heart of a rabbit but he couldn’t recognise it as his own. He cleared his throat again and shook his head.

"If it was a little classier," he continued in a voice that echoed with fear inside his hollow skull, "I’d consider marrying it with my princess."  
His palm patted the warmth of the Impala’s metal and he lowered his gaze, breathing like a bull with a spear stuck between his ribs, sweating, sweating, sweating.  
"But the way it is…"  
He could see Castiel’s hand - too close to his own.  
"… the way it is, it’s just a little too - rough and - uh, well, it just ain’t classy."  
He pulled his hand onto his lap and the bottle was there over his lips again. He drank hastily.

"It’d be like - uh - I don’t know. Marrying Frankenstein’s bride to - um - Frankenstein instead of the - hell, like marrying your angel blade to that damn First Blade in the trunk."  
It didn’t even have to make sense. Anything to convince them both that Castiel’s hand had been too close and he was drunk off his ass and really needed to shake Sam awake and take his place on the nap seat.  
Dean turned his eyes towards the angel and got lost, shaking and hoping it wasn’t as visible as it felt, and the bottle in his hand was empty and he didn’t have more to down.

"Isn’t it said," Castiel replied like he wasn’t being incoherent or absurd at all, "that the marriage of opposites is the marriage that lasts?"

"That’s not what I’m -"

But what was it, really? Dean didn’t have a clue. He blushed, hiding it by looking back down again, but he’d already planted his palm back over the car’s hood and, well, there it was now. The seraph’s hand landed over his in a way that felt like heaven and earth crashing and for a moment Dean thought he was falling back or slipping down the hood.  
His lips parted, he breathed sharply in, trying to come up with a way to shout ‘what the hell?’ that didn’t involve the usage of his throat that was as closed as a collapsed mineshaft, and his heart had abandoned its room in his chest and climbed all the way up to become the blockage in the middle of his neck, pumping, pumping,  _pumping_  like the end was there. _  
_

Then the moment was over - Castiel’s hand was gone, settled on his lap again as he sat as naturally as he had over the Impala’s hood, like it was his damn birthright, and Dean realised that the obscene levels of alcohol in his blood had just dropped to nothing. Clarity returned to his vision and the nausea that lingered within him had everything to do with the marriage of Frankenstein to his monsters, and nothing to do with the now absent taste of lame beer over his tongue.  
He breathed in the summer air as if for the first time in his life as the car swayed underneath him and the door opened.

"I’m good to go," Sam’s voice announced, unwelcome but like the second coming of Christ to the masses of orthodox Christians at the same time, "If you want to take a nap, now’s your chance."

Dean felt his body slip off the hood and he had the most unnatural grin upon his face as he turned to face his brother.  
"I’m not gonna sleep in my entire life again," he choked before he could stop himself, "I just had me AA’d by an angel and I feel like a thousand bucks. Let’s get going."


End file.
